


And There Is an Angel

by aseriesofessays



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Hallucinations, Implied Overdose, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6721669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseriesofessays/pseuds/aseriesofessays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with Grantaire saying yes.</p><p>He didn't regret it then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ruination of his life takes place gradually.

It starts with a party, with Montparnasse, with saying hi and then " _fuck_ , you're pretty". It starts with getting drunker and drunker and with a hand in his hair, forcing him to his knees in the backroom. It starts with Montparnasse sneering at the cheap liquor clutched in his hand, saying "I can get you much better- and for you, a discount".

It starts with Grantaire saying yes.

He didn't regret it then.

\---

There's nothing wrong with him, he tells himself, not even when his hands are shaking and his arms are littered with trackmarks under his sweater and he's shivering in July.

"Grantaire, pay attention," snaps Enjolras, and he might have said it before but Grantaire can't remember.

\---

He talks half in a daze, with that five am feeling sunk deep into his bones. His words aren't connected to his mouth and his mouth moves on without words, and it's not the same as being drunk.

"Are you alright, Grantaire?" asks Combeferre, cautiously, a month too late, and he smiles with sugar skull eyes.

"Polar bears still existed when we didn't have a name for them," he replies, like it makes sense, and it does. Right now.

(Things exist without the approval of human beings. He can do it.)

\---

"R, I think you need to sit this meeting out."

Jehan sounds soft and blurred and apologetic, and Grantaire nods and nods and keeps on nodding.

"Go," says Enjolras, and the bite is what he needs to get up and leave.

Montparnasse is waiting for him, bruises in his smile and addiction in his hands.

\---

Grantaire calls Joly one day, panicked because _oh god_ he's about to die his heart is going too fast and he's _burning_ and he forgets he's not friends with them anymore, sometimes.

But Joly handles it, slips into his doctor voice and telling him what to do until Grantaire can breathe again. It's a panic attack, not an overdose, but it's the worst panic attack he's ever had and now Joly wants to check up on him in person-

He's being so gentle and soft and careful with him Grantaire wants to break down and cry because it's been all hard edges and jagged words for months and months and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

He cries.

They don't meet up.

\---

_My name is Grantaire and I'm only twenty one years old and I've fucked up my life I've fucked it up I've fucked it up_

\---

The ruination of his life is a gradual thing but it's also a slope so steep it's almost vertical and he's falling, falling, _falling_ -

And then he's thrown a rope.

\---

Catch myself or hang myself?

_My name is Grantaire and my ribs are rungs on a ladder and when I open my mouth broken glass spills out in the place of breath._

_My name is Grantaire and I ruined everything but maybe (maybe) it can be fixed._

\---

_Catch myself or hang myself?_

He isn't given the choice.

Bahorel breaks down the door to his flat, the Amis swarming behind him like ducklings (even Enjolras) and Grantaire just stares at them.

"You can't do this," he says, quietly, defeatedly, because they already have.

(The screaming comes later.)

\---

The Rules:

1.) Don't let him out

2.) Don't talk to him

3.) Don't let him out of your sight

\---

He's a prisoner and they're his captors and one day he knocks Bossuet out with a frying pan and runs away and they find him, shivering and strung out, the next day.

That's a new rule added to his list- don't let him near heavy things. Or dangerous things. Joly votes they keep his hands tied, with a venomous glare, but he's overruled.

\---

On the fourth day- the fourth day of the new detox- Grantaire wakes up with his heart in his throat and ants crawling over every inch of his skin.

He thinks they're not real- his flat doesn't even have ants, and aren't they supposed to stay away from people?- but the more he lies there the more he can feel them. And the more he can feel them, the more he can feel them _everywhere_.

And the more he can feel them everywhere, he can feel they're _inside_ -

He starts screaming, starts screaming and can't stop, there are ants _inside him_  get them _out_ _get them out please get them out-_

And then there are hands holding him down, he doesn't know who but can they see that he _needs_ to get them _off_? He tries to shudder away from himself, clenches his muscles so tightly that he throws up and chokes and he's sobbing and there are ants crawling in his throat and his eyes and streaming down his cheeks and

There are hands carding through his hair, little soothing hushes coming from above him, and eventually he calms enough to curl up and bury his face in their leg. They're warm and soft and they smell like coffee and shampoo and electricity.

"There are ants inside of me," he whimpers, and the hand in his hair moves to rub his back.

"I know," the voice says, softly, and Grantaire has just a moment to be surprised that it's Enjolras before he's dropping off to sleep.

\---

There's a angel, in his dreams, and he looks at him with broken eyes and calls him unworthy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter trigger warnings: suicidal thoughts, mentions of overdose

He lies on his bed, slicked with sweat, shuddering and tingling and spreadeagled and he _wants_ more than he ever has.

(He wants the slide of the needle in his veins, he wants fireworks in his head, or- maybe he wants to die.)

\---

"You're going to kill me," says Grantaire in disbelief, watching as Combeferre determinedly dumps every single bottle of alcohol he has in the house down the sink (there's a lot). "You're actually going to kill me."

"We're helping you," says Jehan firmly, and Grantaire smiles with teeth that feel blood red.

"Should've done it with a gun, love, that'd be so much easier to clean up."

Jehan shudders, and he feels something in the pit of his stomach that might be guilt or a half formed apology but he lets them go without another word because they don't deserve that.

(No, they do, but Grantaire hurts to much right now to be selfless.)

\---

_There_

_is_

_glass_

_in_

_his_

_lungs_

_and hurricanes_

_in his_

_head and_

_he thinks_

_the the_

_world is_

_dying._

\---

He vomits up blood and desperation, scrabbling weakly at his forearms with blunt fingernails until a hand rakes through his hair. It's too rough to be comforting, too slow to really hurt, stretching his neck _back back back_ until his eyes are shut against it.

"Stop," says a cool, calm voice, and Grantaire chokes out a sob.

"Fuck you, _fuck you_ -"

The hand yanks, and Grantaire collapses to the floor in a heap, shivering. He closes his eyes.

He breathes.

"Fuck you."

The hand gentles, becomes soothing and soft, but he can't quite forget.

\---

Things swirl and he wants to paint it like he hasn't wanted to paint anything in months but his hands are shaking so hard the the brush falls to the floor.

(He doesn't know what's making it do that- the withdrawals, the lack of sleep or food?- but he hates it.)

"I need a drink," he says, against his knees, and Combeferre gives him a look.

"No, you don't."

" _Please_." His back in pressed against the wall, knobs of his spine sticking out like the spines on a dragon. Grantaire thinks maybe he could spit fire, if they let him free. (Because this is a prison and they are his keepers.) (Because he's dying and they don't care.)

"Shut up, Grantaire."

He'd lost any right to politeness he might have had and their scorn burns veins like poison.

\---

Grantaire wants to do it, he really does, but he can't go cold turkey. It's killing him.

Their guard slackens, lack of sleep and too much stress and planning rallies on top of meetings on top of school work and exams and coffee and one days Bossuet falls asleep at the kitchen table and Grantaire-

Grantaire takes some money and his phone and puts on his shoes and slips out.

\---

He doesn't know what to do with freedom.

The sounds of the city nearly makes him cry. Grantaire loves Paris, knows it like the back of his hand, and he takes a moment to drink it all in before he walks off.

(He knows they won't be able to find him, not if he doesn't want to be found.)

\---

The feeling of a needle in his veins makes him shiver inside, with guilt and anticipation, and relief comes in a wave. (Clarity, too, if you can call it that. He does. He doesn't think Enjolras would, but then he's not thinking about Enjolras.)

Montparnasse pulls him down by the collar of his shirt for a bruising kiss, and then more (it's always more).

"Where've you been?"

He know perfectly well. Grantaire glares, trying not to wince at the feeling of him between his legs.

"You _knew_ ," he slurs accusingly. "You could have gotten me out."

Montparnasse laughs, dark and slow and rich. "Where's the fun in that?"

\---

Grantaire leaves, when he's done, with enough for a week and fresh bruises darkening his back. (Which is fine. Which is fine. Which is fine.)

\---

_There is fire in his veins and a layer of ice crackling over every inch of his skin and he shivers and sweats and feels better than he has in weeks months years_

\---

He is in hell and hell is in him.

\---

He calls Enjolras, which maybe isn't in his top ten good ideas. He picks up first ring, sounding angry. (Grantaire supposes he always sounds angry.)

"Grantaire, where the fuck are you?"

He doesn't have the energy to laugh, so he huffs out a half breath and flutters his eyelids closed. "Enjolras?"

" _Yes_ , Grantaire, it's me," says Enjolras, sounding exasperated. "Where are you?"

"Where are any of us?" he breathes, a smile twitching the corner of his lips. It feels shattered.

Enjolras groans. "I don't have time for this. You're scaring Joly, just tell me where you are."

He realizes he's singing when a tear collects in the melody. He breaks off. "Hey, Enjolras?"

"Yes, Grantaire?"

"I think I'm dying."

There's silence on the other end, for a long time, and when Enjolras speaks again it's softer, corner tables padded with velvet. He's grateful. "Grantaire, _please_ , we're all worried about you."

"Don't be," he murmurs. "Everything dies."

"Tell me where you are," he says, and Grantaire hears broken glass in his voice too. He doesn't like it. "Grantaire, _tell me where you are_."

Grantaire tells him.

Grantaire closes his eyes.

"Love you," he whispers.

"Don't die on me," Enjolras snaps. "God damn it, Grantaire, don't fucking _die_ on me!"

He's never been good at following orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not finished dw


	3. Chapter 3

If Enjolras is an angel Grantaire's not even fit to be his fallen counterpart. He's just a stumbling, messy human, stained black with ink and red with blood and grey with death.

When Jehan finds him, they scream.

\--

Grantaire lives, sort of. Part of him thinks, past the detached tears and swirling hallucinations and itching, tingling pain all up his body that maybe he's died somewhere more important than the literal. Enjolras tells him he's being stupid and he should shut up- he hadn't realized he was speaking out loud, but he obeys anyway.

They all sit with him, Jehan soft and flowery and nervous and Bahorel too quiet, like he doesn't know who to be (Grantaire knows the feeling but doesn't help him out, just stares out the window and tries too hard to breathe). Courfeyrac attaches bravado to his words with safety pins and Combeferre reads to him until he falls asleep.

Eponine is tough love and Cosette is cookies and a cheerful bombardment of questions. (Marius sits with her and looks away, even though Grantaire's got his eyes closed and he's facing the other direction anyway). Feuilly made him a paper fan and the staff took it away, just in case.

Enjolras is... Enjolras. He's rougher than Grantaire would have liked and softer than he deserves. When Grantaire cries he pets through his hair and when he doesn't speak he lets the silence stretch and when he shakes so hard the world spins like a top he tugs him into his lap and holds him tight until he droops and lets himself be centered.

It pieces him back together.

(There are a lot of pieces to go.)

\--

It's months before he can take in a breathe without wanting something in his veins to ease the vacuum-ache of it.

\--

Grantaire's corpse fills out until his sharp-grey-hollow turns into dull, reluctant solidity. Jehan stops calling him ghost-boy and Joly stops staring worriedly at the sharp line of his collarbones and when Enjolras pulls him up into his lap there's more than bone under his tight, tight grip.

He starts to get better, he thinks, but his mind is still broken glass and he hasn't spoken in months and the only person who's not scared to touch him is Enjolras. (Sometimes he thinks he could get addicted to that, as well- gold hair and fierce blue eyes and a voice sharp enough to cut through the mess scattering his brain. Sometimes he thinks he wouldn't mind.)

One time he answers Enjolras back, voice soft and rough as sandpaper- Enjolras had been talking of one of their rallies, and Grantaire had absentmindedly countered a point.

Enjolras had paused, considered it with more gravity than Grantaire thinks he's even afforded one of his interjections, and replied in kind.

Grantaire had cried until there were no tears left, and Enjolras had held him.

\--

Part of him thinks he's overreacting and part of him thinks this was a long time coming- he'd been on the edge for years. Montparnasse had set him teetering, and then he'd given him the push.

For a while, all that it was was rocks- dark red splattering over his head and arms and body. He'd taken breaths and choked on them, painful and punctured.

He's halfway up, now, maybe. Winched up inch by inch.

Enjolras holds the rope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short but in my defense i'm suffering terrible writers block

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at lesgrandtears.tumblr.com


End file.
